Page 4 of Yanked (Frenched 1.50)
A month.
I scowled.
Yeah, that was pretty fucking crazy.
Flopping onto my side, I punched my pillow to fluff it up, but punching something felt so good, I kept doing it. So what if it’s crazy? I thought getting on that plane to Paris was crazy too, but it brought me to Lucas, didn’t it? Maybe I like crazy. Maybe crazy suits me. Maybe—
I froze, my fist in the air.
Maybe I could get on a plane this weekend after all. Maybe I could go to New York, surprise Lucas, and make him realize that we were perfect for each other and it was time to decide where we were headed. (I could get those eight inches I wanted, too.)
Crazy? Probably.
But it sure as hell was spontaneous. And Lucas liked spontaneity the way I liked lists.
So right after we have crazy, spontaneous I-Can’t-Believe-You’re-Here sex on the living room floor, maybe we’ll make a list of pros and cons about living in New York, and then one for Detroit.
Sex and lists.
My panties were wet already.
“What’s with you?” Coco asked as soon as our prospective client was out of earshot. We were seated next to each other at a booth in our favorite spot for breakfast before work. Normally the smell of strong coffee and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls made me drool, but I had no appetite this morning.
I raised my eyebrows and picked up my coffee cup, which was still nearly full. “Nothing. Why do you ask?”
She rolled her eyes. “Because I know you. And all through that meeting you kept asking Karen White to repeat herself, or you’d say things that had just been said a few minutes before. You stopped taking notes halfway through the meeting and doodled question marks instead, and you called her Sharon when you said goodbye. None of this is like you.” She put her hand on my forehead. “Are you feeling OK?”
“God, I called her Sharon?” I cringed, setting my cup down without drinking from it. “Shit.”
“Yes.” She dropped her hand. “But luckily, I don’t think she cared. Our ideas impressed her enough to verbally commit to hiring us. We just have to send a contract over to her office this afternoon with an estimate and some details. I’ll call over to the DAC and see if her first choice of dates is free. Maybe you can check on a band?”
“Of course,” I promised. Underneath the sea of question marks in my notebook—I much preferred handwritten notes to typed—I jotted a reminder to call the talent agency. I wanted to please this client, I really did. Karen White was special events coordinator for a breast cancer awareness and research foundation. Their annual fundraiser was quite a coup for Devine Events, the event planning business Coco and I ran together. Most of our clients were brides, but I knew this would lead to more high-profile society events if Karen was pleased. She’d contacted us after attending a retro-inspired wedding we’d done last summer, and it had been Coco’s idea to pitch a Roaring Twenties/Great Gatsby theme for the fundraiser. She’d nailed the pitch, and Karen had loved it.
But Coco was right—I was totally distracted, unable to concentrate on the meeting at all. I didn’t want to think about bands and catering, centerpieces and silent auction setup. I wanted to think about living with Lucas. About coffee together every morning and TV on the couch at night. About sharing closet space and bathroom drawers and a bar of soap in the shower.
Mmm, the shower…
“Mia!” Coco was totally exasperated. “What the hell? You’re not listening to a word I’m saying!” Her expression grew concerned, and she lowered her voice to a whisper. “Oh, God. You’re not pregnant, are you?”
“What? No!” That snapped me out of it. “I’m not pregnant, I’m just distracted.” I reached into my purse and pulled out my wallet, removing some cash to pay the tab. “Come on, let’s go back to the office. I’ll tell you all about it.”
We left the money on the table and bundled up our coats against the February chill. It had been a freezing cold, snowy winter, and I was longing for the day when I could wear shoes to work, not boots. We slogged through the slush to the parking lot, and I remembered Lucas’s suggestion that we fly to Miami so I could feel warm sand under my feet. Why the fuck had I said no? Shivering in the teeth-rattling cold, I opened the passenger door and slid into Coco’s bright red Volkswagen Beetle.
“So? Spill.” Coco turned the key in the ignition and the engine came to life.
“I will. Turn on the seat warmers. I like how your car makes my ass hot.”
She grinned and adjusted a knob on the dash. “Done. Your buns will be toasted in a moment.”
“Thank you. OK, so last night, I was on the phone with Lucas,” I began as she backed up, “and—“
“More phone sex?” Her eyebrows disappeared beneath her Bettie Page bangs. “Do tell.” Coco was endlessly fascinated by my sex life, especially since she’d sworn off sex herself. She’d dated a string of assholes the past few years, and said she was tired of good sex with bad boys.
“If you must know, yes, but that’s not what has me distracted. After we—“ I flapped a hand in the air—“you know, finished that part, he said—“
“Toy or no toy?”
“Jesus, Coco. You really need to get off the abstinence kick.”
